


From Our Younger Days, With Love

by IdiotCrusader



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers: Shattered Glass
Genre: AU - Humans, And Then Back To Enemies In The Morning, Enemies to Lovers, Gentle Sex, Getaway cannot even deal, M/M, Praise Kink, Shattered Glass, Tarn and Skids being dramatic, questionable life choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-31 13:41:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19427107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdiotCrusader/pseuds/IdiotCrusader
Summary: During their Academy days, Tarn had made Skids an offer.Almost twenty years later that offer still stands.(Alternatively, the one where Skids is a horrible person but Tarn still wants to treat him Gently.)





	From Our Younger Days, With Love

**Author's Note:**

> Domestic Bliss 'verse is huge tbh. Writing out an AU in full to have a comprehensive plot and a storyline that makes sense? Nah. Writing random scenes that can be read as a stand-alone but just barely? YES.
> 
> Just to note, Skids/Getaway is an established relationship here. Getaway is fully aware of Skids' trysts and is sort of okay with them. 
> 
> Also, yeah, Megan is fem!Overlord. Because of course she is.

There are bad people. There are good people.  
And there are people you fall in love with, and there is no promise whatsoever on your heart’s part to only ever choose from the latter category.

* * *

Tarn sees Skids during a piano recital on a small, almost private stage uptown.  
  
It goes like this: the recitals happen every other Saturday, most of the music is time-proven classics, and the place is conveniently hidden in a calm, sleepy area and has a certain… chamber feeling to it which Tarn happens to really like. There’s a stage, a few tables, several rooms upstairs if the guests wish to stay the night. Walk-ins happen, but there are never too many people. Tarn has been visiting these events every so often for a few years - not without an occasional skip, but with persistent regularity. He knows the usual crowd there, most of the regular performers, too. It’s all good.  
  
He sits at his favourite table just beside the stage, deeply entranced by the harmonics of the melody, when something - someone - familiar catches his eye. Tarn takes a second to realise what he feels, and it turns out to be recognition.  
  
Turning his head, Tarn frowns ever so slightly. There’s indeed a very familiar someone leaning against the wall near the exit. Lights are dimmed everywhere but above the stage, but it’s unmistakable. The silhouette, the face, although obscured…  
  
Skids, dressed like he just walked out of the gentleman’s club from the last century, tips his hat on Tarn with a smirk that Tarn _feels_ more than sees, lingers just enough to make sure Tarn has indeed noticed his presence and disappears behind the door. Forgetting the music for a moment, Tarn stares into the dark doorway, truly bewildered.  
  
There is no reason whatsoever for Skids to be here. 

This - these recitals, the stage, the music - is a fully private experience that has nothing to do with Megatron’s agenda. There are easier places to seek Tarn out - or are there? For a brief moment, Tarn contemplates whether or not to be worried, and finds himself unwilling to taint a perfectly quiet evening with suspicion. 

He is, of course, aware Skids could theoretically pose a very real threat. Should an order come, Tarn is sure Skids would not consider their previous… ties - if shared time at the Academy can even be termed such - as a reason to not bring harm to him. They have seen each other several times since Megatron’s campaign started, and every interaction so far has been within reasonable boundaries yet… agreeable. Megan certainly warned Tarn about Skids quite a few times, but Tarn cannot bring himself to perceive him as a proper enemy. Someone from the opposing side, perhaps. But nothing that would make Tarn actively wary or hostile towards him.

Foolish of him, that attitude? Oh, most certainly. But that’s just how he is.

Still, Tarn wonders what brings Skids here. Crossing paths in such environment coincidentally seems… unlikely. He tries to get back to listening to the recital but it’s hard to focus: his thoughts keep returning to Skids’ appearance, but no matter how many times he keeps turning around to glance at the doorway, it’s dark and empty. 

By the time the recital is over Tarn starts to wonder if his eyes have deceived him. He comes upstairs to the room he rents for the nights like these, - always the same one, a clean well-furnished suite away from the noise and distractions, - fully intending to rest and deal with this strange occurrence later. 

There is a sticker note on his door. 

A plain square of the blue paper reads: “ _Meet me downstairs in the hall at 11 if you’d like. I’ll bring wine. Just want to talk._ ”

There is no signature, but Tarn remembers that messy handwriting with occasional backwards S’s surprisingly well. 

He did not, of course, inform anyone of what room he would be staying in. Even Megan had never shown interest in such details. Still, he doesn’t believe the note is addressed to anyone but him. 

Tarn stares at the offending piece of paper for a good few seconds, then carefully takes it down, placing it into his breast pocket, and walks into his room.

* * *

At 22:55 sharp he is standing fully dressed in front of his door that he has just closed behind himself. Slipping the key into the pocket of his vest, Tarn gives his decision a final consideration and finds it unchanged. His curiosity gets the better of him. What’s the worst that could happen? According to Megan, many things, but right now the voice of reason seems quieter than usual.

Tarn sighs and heads for the stairs. 

He knows the _rendezvous_ is really happening when there appears to be light seeping from under the door leading to the performance hall. Tarn gently pushes the wooden door, and it opens with a creak. 

As it is to be expected, Skids waits for him inside. 

He’s wearing the same tastefully chosen suit as before. No hat this time - thank Primus, it was an overkill, if a charming one, - and his golden locks are the only thing in slight disorder. His tie is neatly done, and Tarn can’t help but think he looks good like this, strict and formal. Tarn places a great value into dressing fittingly for the occasion. It’s pleasing to look at. 

The lights are dimmed, and the stage is surrounded by shadows that make everything look… surreal, like a Polaroid negative. There is a bottle of wine on the table on the side of the hall. Two glasses, only one of them full. 

Skids turns at the sound of his steps with an affable smile: 

“Ah, there you are. Got my note, I see. I knew you would be coming after all. Fancy meeting you here, Tarn.” 

Tarn hesitates for a second. It seems a little absurd, but lots of things do, these days.

“Why are you here?”

Skids ignores his question in favour of pouring another glass of wine, which he then proceeds to pick up and tilt towards Tarn slightly in the unspoken invitation. 

Come to think of it, it _is_ silly to speak across the room… 

“How’s the evening treating you? Did you enjoy the music?” Skids hands Tarn a glass as soon as he comes close enough. His posture and tone come off as relaxed and unguarded. As if them talking beside an empty stage is the most normal thing in the world. 

Tarn finds no better reply than an answer.

“It’s been rather… lovely.” He hesitates again. “Yourself?”

“Oh, I’m not here for the music. Had some business in the area. Not the kind of business that would make you want to call the cops if that bothers you.” Skids chuckles softly. “But if you must know, I’ve never been one for the classics. Swing and rock’n’roll are more my speed. Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a skilful performance.”

Tarn contemplates this information - or, rather, the situation on the whole. He highly doubts said _business_ is as harmless as Skids makes it sound. There is, however, no way to test whether he is lying, and it still seems unlikely that Skids would be here to harm Tarn. 

If he was, he surely would have done so already. There’d been plenty of occasions. 

“I must admit, for you of all people to turn up as Megatron’s ally… I didn’t expect to see you again, and look at us now. I mean, what are the chances!” 

“Is there a... particular reason why we’re having this conversation now?” Tarn inquiries. It’s not a trick question. Truth to be told, he doesn’t mind the company as much as he knows he ought to. It just would be nice to understand why. 

“Do I need a reason?” Skids shrugs. “You don’t seem to find my presence that unpleasant at all. Likewise is mutual.”

A bold statement, given they haven’t interacted much at all since they both became aware of each other’s presence and current occupation. Bold, yet not an untruthful one. Tarn is many things, but thoughtless is not among them. He knew who the message was from the second he saw it. Had he not wanted to see Skids, had he not been at least a little interested - he would have stayed in his room, securely locked for the night. 

“There is usually a reason for everything,” Tarn points out, calmly. “It just might not be a very _good_ one.”

He takes a sip of his wine, and Skids does the same. It’s a good blend, sharp and sweet. Tarn enjoys wine - not overly intoxicating, a lovely taste, a pleasant warmth of lowered inhibitions. It’s one of the many small, harmless vices he indulges in. 

Human beings can resist anything but _temptation_ , can they?

Skids seems to take that statement very close to heart, Tarn muses.

“If you put it that way…” Skids flashes a smile at him. “Very well. I’ll give you a no-good reason. I came here because, as it turns out, I'm willing to take you up on an old offer.”

An offer?.. Tarn eyes him with vague confusion, sifting through his own memories in search of what that might refer to, and then, in the scope of a mere second, he _knows_.

It’s been almost two decades, and still, he remembers almost instantly. 

“These things have a… statute of limitations, of course.” Skids waves his hand dismissively. “But not with you, I can tell.”

“Why?”

It’s the only thing Tarn can think of asking. He’s… caught off-guard. _Dumbfounded._

“Why as in what makes me think you still want me? Or why as in why now?” Tarn nods slightly at the second question, and Skids simply admits: “I'm curious.”

Curiousity. Just like that.

“And you weren't back then.”

 _Back then_ was, of course, in the Academy. Tarn remembers these days vividly. Those weren’t exactly happy times, but they were important. He had a different name, a different personality, although not by much. His tastes were, however, very much the same.

You see, Tarn figured his romantic preference out very early. He fell easily for charismatic, strong personalities. For somebody with skill, an agenda, a _sparkle_. Of course, that’s what has lead him to be at Megatron’s side eventually, but he’s been in love before Megatron. 

There was Megan, although it hadn’t lasted long and they came to a mutual agreement that making good friends is far preferential to making poorly compatible lovers. 

There was Pharma, his most tragic involvement so far that left him wondering if there was anything he could do to change how it went down, or if they were doomed from the start. That, and a bitter feeling of remorse that never felt away. 

There was, lately, a new ally, someone called Deathsaurus, a rogue officer that chose to sever his bonds with the military upon finding out that his soldiers were treated unjustly. A remarkably brave individual. Brash but charming. Tarn hasn’t seen much of him yet but could feel himself getting a little… carried away. 

Everyone Tarn ever fell for was brilliant. Outstanding. They were no ordinary characters.

Including, of course, Skids of Nova Cronum.

His first _crush_ , although Tarn resented the term somewhat. ‘Crush’ implied something frivolous and light-hearted. Tarn never took love light-heartedly. 

Skids slowly swirls liquid his glass around. His eyes are distant. If Tarn had to guess, he would guess that he is remembering what it was like back then, too. 

“I wouldn't have appreciated what I think you’re trying to offer then. Too _young_.”

“We were indeed very young,” Tarn agrees. “I miss the feeling at times.” 

He can suddenly feel Skids’ gaze on himself. The intensity of it is chilling. 

“So you’re interested in recreating it, I take it?”

Tarn nods slightly without meeting his eyes. 

It’s… reckless. They are, technically, on opposing sides, and someone like Deathsaurus would have seen it as _fraternizing_. The sheer impropriety of it makes Tarn giddy with cautious excitement. Casual sex with an old flame, really? That sort of thing should be well beneath him. He’s not lonely or desperate for a lover - not anymore. His heart is committed to somebody else, and he hasn’t thought of Skids in a romantic sense for years and years.  
He has no reason to say yes to Skids other than his sudden peculiar desire to commit something so… wildly out of character. 

Youth is reckless, they say. Tarn finds it to be quite the opposite in his own case. He’d never been brave enough for such thing in his youth. The best he could do then was to propose - just sex, really, not much more - to Skids, just once, and back away when his proposition was rejected. Perhaps he would have backed down even if Skids agreed. Never had the courage to insist or follow through. 

But if they could just pretend that he _did_ …

Tarn finds himself wanting it. He wishes he could blame the wine, but he’s not nearly drunk enough. Still, what harm is there in playing a little game, just once? 

Lots of harm, to think of it. _If_ you think of it - which Tarn chooses not to do. 

“Dance with me,” Skids tells him.

They shouldn’t. Oh, there are so many reasons why they should stay away from each other, and most of them are for Tarn’s own sake. Tarn can think of precisely none of those reasons when Skids gives him a shining smile and mutters something about the _old times_. 

Tarn steps closer and takes Skids by the hand.

* * *

They come up on the stage. There’s a recorder beside the piano which, Tarn is pretty sure, wasn’t there earlier in the evening. Skids takes him closer and starts fiddling with the buttons. Suddenly Tarn remembers that it’s getting rather late by local standards. This place is not where one goes for _nightlife_. 

“Should we be doing this now?..”

“Don’t worry. I’ve made a few arrangements, we won’t be disturbing anyone.” Skids checks the name of the recording on the display. Before Tarn can question what sort of arrangements these might be, Skids smiles at him, not devoid of excitement, before pressing play: “I’ve got just the thing you might like.” 

The melody starts. Skids watches Tarn’s face intently, clearly waiting for his reaction, and there is indeed a very clear one when Tarn recognises the composition. It’s one of his long-time favourites. Unlike most of what he likes, it’s not classical music, per se - it’s a _romantic song_ , sung in a beautiful soft voice with the most marvellous accompaniment of the violin. A rare recording indeed, since the performer came out of fashion about the time graduated the Academy - to his great regret. 

Skids laughs at Tarn’s evident surprise - softly, lacking malice. The neon lights of the scene make him look younger. He looks just the way Tarn remembers him, before all the hard truths and questionable choices, and Tarn can feel the warmth settling in his chest. 

He’s not in love anymore, not the same way he was back then, but he knows he retains a certain fondness and admiration for each of his past flames. Tarn has never brought himself to hate Skids, despite what he knew of him and his life these days, and he never would. Some feelings should never be sacrificed for animosity. 

They could stay as memories to be addressed with sweet sorrowful fondness. Except what they’re doing now brings these memories, these days, back to life, and Tarn wonders if he should stop before it’s too late. 

He doesn’t love Skids anymore, but perhaps tonight his heart is fully not aware of it. 

“You think too much, good sir.” It’s not a mockery but a joke, soft-spoken and not unkind. “You want it. I’m willing to play along. Would you ruin it for your morals?”

Tarn never thought it would ever come to this question, but the answer turns out to be _no_.

He wouldn’t. This must be what Megan feels every time she goes to see Verity. Tarn cannot imagine dealing with such a feeling after an actual… relationship, a proper break-up. 

Fantasising is one thing. Having had everything and giving it up is something else entirely. Good Lord, perhaps it is for the best Skids rejected him back then. It’s painful to even fathom getting a taste of what it could be like, to be _together_ for a night, and then going through the agony of the heartbreak. Tarn is - and was, even then - able to tell fantasy and reality apart. They could never have a _relationship_ , and maybe that’s another reason why Skids said no to him then. In retrospect, Tarn hardly blames him. 

There’s nothing more pathetic and bothersome than a heartbroken fool pining after you. 

Now, however… He knows he can deal with the aftermath. If there is any time good enough to try it, now’s that time. 

The music keeps playing, and it really is the exact kind Tarn appreciates. A slow, paced tune, beautifully put together chords. It’s not the music to know a particular dance for - rather a honey-thick rhythm to get lost in and follow. Doing exactly that just feels… right. 

Skids places a hand on his shoulder. 

“Well? Something tells me you’d like to lead.”

Tarn takes a deep steadying breath and cleares his throat:

“Of course.” 

It’s been a long time since he danced with anyone, let alone with a man; Skids patiently waits for him to figure out where to put his hands, what stance to take, before Tarn takes a first tentative step. 

It’s easier after that. 

They’re both rather artistic in the way they move, and they fit together in the best way. Tarn appreciates the way Skids is shorter, lighter than himself; his fluid manner to move and attention to the music; the way he knows how to be led rather than getting in the way. Still not quite as being with a woman, but that’s only fair. Tarn isn’t looking to compare. 

“A little slower,” his hands, lying relaxed on Skids’ waist, press down the tiniest bit. 

Another quick smile. Whether Skids makes an effort to seem a little flustered and open or he’s being sincere for some reason, Tarn has no idea. 

“Excuse me. Hasn’t done anything _slow_ in ages.” 

Slow is indeed not Skids’ style, and it shows, yet he still is a splendid dancer - a natural with a feel for the music and the body just for the moves. Tarn can feel him adapt to the rhythm and fall into it as they sway in the wide circle across the stage. It’s… hypnotising. 

“For someone who’s merely here for business, you’re awfully well-dressed, my dear.” 

The endearment comes naturally, rolls off his tongue like it’s nothing, and before Tarn can question its appropriateness Skids returns the compliment with a playful smile: 

“Felt handsome. Not that my efforts don’t pale in comparison to yours. This is the sharpest suit I’ve seen in a long time. It’s a good look on you.”

His hand comes to rest on Tarn’s chest for a second, smoothing out a wrinkle on his vest Tarn is pretty sure was never there. 

“Flattery would only get you so far,” Tarn scolds gently. 

“Oh?” Skids takes another step, letting Tarn twirl him around. “What would it take to get even _farther_ , then?” 

They’re flirting rather openly, and Tarn loves it. Not much point in flirting when you’ve already agreed to sex, but it does set the atmosphere. Not that Skids hasn’t taken care of the atmosphere to the highest standard beforehand, of course. 

The place, the music, the wine. The dancing. It’s perfect. Tarn can’t take his eyes off his stunning companion, and any worries he might have had about the… acting, not being able to get into the desired mindset, fade away in the pleasant fog that settles in his head. 

The music is just simple enough, just loud enough so that they could still talk over it. 

“So… is there anything to our _arrangement_ I should know beforehand?”

“Not much, I imagine.” Tarn watches Skids’ lips as he speaks. His thoughts are taking outright _indecent_ turns, and he welcomes it. “I’m not offering commitment, that much is clear, I hope. Fun tonight, back to our lives tomorrow morning.”

“Of course.” Good thing that Tarn isn’t looking for commitment, either. He’s not particularly… used to one night stands, but he can see the appeal.

Skids’ got committed partners of his own, anyway. Technically, what they’re about to do is called _adultery_. It should worry him, but it doesn’t: from what Tarn gathers (it’s mostly what Megan told him, although not all of it - he seems to know a little too much about Skids’ life for a neutral bystander) he’s not the first person Skids makes such an offer to, and his… family never minds. They must have that sorted in some way. 

He’s about to sleep with the most notoriously promiscuous Academy student, and it doesn’t bother him, either. It would have, back then. Glitch dreamed of loyalty. 

Tarn just wants a taste of that sweet time together. 

“Any ground rules?” He asks. 

“Do you want it spelt out for you?” This is the closest to the glimpse of _real_ Skids Tarn sees tonight. Or what he thinks of as real, anyway. A hungry, raw desire of the superlearner’s insatiable curiosity and thirst for experiences, for life itself, flashes through the soft-spoken calm demeanour he’s chosen for this night - and is gone. “I want to pretend we are exactly the way we were back then. Want you to take me upstairs and do _exactly_ what you thought of doing to me twenty years ago. We won’t need the rules.”

Of course they wouldn’t. 

Tarn doubts he could seriously harm a trained special agent, or that he could come up with anything Skids would find too much. But that’s not the reason why rules would be an overkill. 

His own voice, a feverish and desperate whisper, rings in his ears. They were drunk when he’d made The Offer back in the Academy days, weren’t they? The words went something like this: _I want to take you far away from this place and pretend we are in love, just this once. I want to worship you and pour every ounce of my adoration into these few hours. I want to treat you like glass, be so good to you, better than you’d ever think you deserve. I want to…_

It was more of a confession than anything. Lots of unpleasant revelations happened since then, and yet it takes one look, one memory to make Tarn want to hold his promise true more than anything. Skids is, quite possibly, a person so bad he’s beyond penance and repair.  
This knowledge does nothing to stop Tarn from wanting him, and wanting to treat him _gently_. Nothing at all. 

The song changes. The next one is just as good. The most final decision is long made before the intro ends playing.

“Then that’s what we shall do.”

* * *

Tarn takes Skids upstairs to his hotel room. 

Not straight away, of course. They’ve danced to the record of the most nostalgic songs Tarn knows, and talked - nothing serious, but that’s the exact point of idle pleasant conversations - while finishing off the wine, and then danced some more. Skids lets himself get deliberately adventurous with his hands. Tarn allows himself to watch him a little too closely. 

They end up kissing in the tiny service elevator, which they’d taken for this exact reason, and Tarn makes it tender. Skids is yielding under his hands, willing but compliant. 

Tarn cannot ruin it with being too casual, too rough. Can’t let Skids ruin it, either. If they have to play pretend it has to be perfect in every fine detail. 

Tarn always held a certain fondness for theatrics, now isn’t that right?

He holds Skids against the wall, oh so gentle, intending to remind to stay still rather than truly restrict motion. He’s bigger, taller, but Tarn never entertained the illusion that he _could_ truly force Skids. For one, Skids has always been a brilliant fighter. 

More importantly, why would Tarn ever want to ruin something so delicate as this moment, the very minute young Glitch dreamed about in every detail, with force? 

He has never, not once, desired to be rough. Not even knowing others liked it this way, _Skids_ liked it this way. Word got around, but it didn’t matter. 

In his every fantasy, they took it slow. 

Tarn wonders if young Skids was even capable of such a thing. Perhaps there was a yet another reason he was willing to accept most anyone’s offer but not Glitch’s. 

Or, perhaps, it was because the offer was only spoken out loud once in the most awkward circumstances possible, and shamefully forgotten about afterwards. Or at least they’d come to the silent agreement to pretend that it was forgotten. Glitch could never bring himself to be anything more than subtle. Tarn’s personality is... much brighter, much more to the point, yes. But tonight, they are playing their younger selves. 

And his younger self dreamed of being delicate and gentle, so that’s what he would be. 

They end up in his room. Finally, finally… Tarn’s hands shake just a little when he turns the key. It takes them ridiculous time to get from the door to the bed, which is entirely unsurprising with how they can’t seem to pull away from each other. 

Clothes get thrown on the floor. They’re mostly Skids’ clothes, Tarn notes in the back of what’s left of his conscious mind. 

At last, marking every step with yet another kiss, they reach the bed like a milestone. Tarn has never been more grateful for his own taste for comfort: the room he’s chosen is a double suite, with the bed large enough for them both, and any neighbours they could disturb are far down the next corridor. 

It’s almost as if he himself has planned this beforehand. 

Tarn pushes Skids on the bed with a slight nudge and follows him; they part for a second, and the next one they’re back in each other’s arms. 

“Playing pretend, got that?” Skids murmurs. “You must be good at it. I need to hear it. I need to know every little detail of what you _want_. Do it.”

Tarn does remember what the game is but does his best to forget that there even is a game. Skids fidgets in his embrace, studying him expectedly: 

_“Tell me you love me.”_

Tarn’s heart clenches in a blissful, torturous longing. That would be a lie, and that’s the whole point of pretending, but it seems so real he cannot bring himself to make it even moreso.  
  
“I love your mind,” Tarn whispers back, instead. “I love how bright you are. How special. You’re so _smart_ , Skids. I admire your mind so _much_ , never seen anything, anyone like this.” 

Skids gasps softly and Tarn doesn’t know if he loves it or hates it. His eyes are concealed by the shadows, and it’s a shame because Tarn loves watching his lovers’ expressions in berth most attentively but at the same time, it makes acting - for both of them - even easier. Tarn is yet to know is Skids is doing any acting at all. He must do, of course, but there is no proof. It may be for the best. 

Not knowing and blissful in the ignorance of the moment, Tarn keeps talking. 

“I used to pride myself on my intelligence, but you… Would you want to know what my first thought was when we spoke for the very first time?” They never talked too much, weren’t exactly friends after all. But the Academy was… well. A small and relatively closed off group, if you please. It was impossible to stay away from each other completely, and Skids was, in a sense, _everyone’s_ friend. Getting lucky enough to talk to him was just a matter of finding him in the right mood, and Glitch quickly became pretty good at that. “I thought: this is what it feels to _match wits_ , isn’t it. The most delightful of feelings.”

This was how Glitch fell in love for the first time. 

It has been easy as breathing, falling for someone as brilliant, as bright as Skids was. Still is. Absolutely ingenious, funny, outgoing, inventive, lovely Skids. 

An addict from a broken home with a criminal record and enough personality flaws to make any therapist cringe, a pleasure-seeker going down the wrong path, the person easily the least fitting for a connection of any sorts. Skids was precisely what they call a _wrong crowd_. None of that mattered. Glitch could see it then, Tarn knew it for sure now. 

He could never see past the better sides of him if he tried. 

“What Shockwave saw in you, what everyone saw in you… I always thought they took your gift for granted. Even yourself. I’ve spent hours and hours thinking up the words of appreciation I thought you deserved to hear, but even that wouldn’t be enough.” 

His eloquence is usually terribly over the top, especially in the berth, but the idea of one night stands turns out to be liberating. If Tarn would feel embarrassed about the things he said, that would be tomorrow. 

In the morning, yes. In the morning. And that seems eons away. 

Neither of them can keep their hands to themselves; Tarn keeps his touch precisely the same way as the kisses and his words - gentle. They are in a very different state of undress by this point, and Tarn can’t bring himself to mind. His vest is still buttoned all the way up, and there’s something so… indecent about doing such _improper_ things to another while looking so prim and strait-laced. 

Skids is shirtless, his face and chest are flushed with arousal or… he surely cannot be _coy_ , but Tarn is willing to think he is. He admires his lover’s lithe, athletic body, the way his blonde hair is ruffled in disarray, the little sounds he makes when Tarn presses feather-light kisses down his throat and collarbones. 

He always thought Skids be vocal, shameless, in the berth, but there’s also another expectation Tarn often indulges in. That, perhaps, tenderness isn’t his usual scene, but that it would also be something that would let Tarn take him apart piece by piece. 

In his fantasies, gentleness is a way to cheat, just a little, to turn sex into something just a bit personal. Tarn never really had a chance to learn all those clever fancy tricks that an experienced and suave lover might offer, but the lack of skill is, at least in his head, made up for by how sincerely special he’s willing to make it for Skids.

And so far, it seems to be _working_.

There’s a hint of desperation in his motions when Skids pulls him up again for another kiss. Tarn never lets him deepen it, never allows any rush. His free hand wonders down to the clip of Skids’ belt. Tarn asks, soft and almost reverent:

“May I?”

“Yes…” Skids takes a sharp inhale and urgently repeats: “Please, _yes_.”

It’s not what Skids’ lovers usually do, Tarn imagines. Asking permission half-way in. Yet it is what Tarn himself does and believes is a way to treat a partner right. Many find his tastes old-fashioned, and his self - extra. Classic scholar, music lover and a perfect gentleman.

Many find him too much, but tonight, he is acting out a fantasy he’s had for years and was given permission to go as far as he wishes. 

Ironically, Tarn discovers that he doesn’t have to act at all. He feels like _himself_ the most.

Tarn unbuckles Skids’ belt. He intends to stop there for now, but Skids doesn’t let him, and Tarn finds himself helping Skids get rid of the little clothing he still wears. He still wants to take it slow, slower, but that’s quite alright. He could hardly mind such an enticing view. 

Skids, naked and panting on his sheets. How could he resist? 

“Aren’t you gonna…” Skids gestures at his formal attire.

Tarn shushes him with another kiss. 

“Not yet.” Not at all, quite possibly. The contrast between them is too stark, too striking to ruin. Tarn feels a little hot, but it’s well worth the discomfort. He still brings himself to make sure: “Unless you object?..”

“No. No, it suits you.” Skids chuckles, breathless. “It just feels a little unfair, don’t you think?”

Once again, Tarn wonders how much Skids has to pretend for this. If someone like him really could truly care about being exposed in front of another, of a lover no less. Whether a shameless murderer could feel flustered and vulnerable at all. 

The real question is, does he really want to know? And of course, he doesn’t.

“I see nothing unfair in letting me admire you. I would not want to split my attention.” Tarn murmurs, instead. “I rather appreciate the scene. You’re _gorgeous_.”

A look it earns him lingers somewhere between pleased and perplexed. 

“You see, it was supposed to be about you either way. Perhaps it’s better that way, so you don’t get too… tempted to reciprocate.” Skids opens his mouth, as if to interrupt, and Tarn shushes him: “You’re many things, but not a selfish lover, aren’t you? I know you want to make it two-way, but you wanted me to go about it in my fashion, too. And I only wish to see your pleasure. Let me _take care_ of you. I’m quite certain you won’t regret it.” 

Skids licks his lips. Tarn cannot tell if it’s a habit or a seductive gesture: for someone as fond of _romance_ as himself he’s rather inexperienced in such intimate affairs. Tarn leans in for another kiss on the lips, making this one chaste and almost innocent; Skids shivers. 

Something about it doesn’t strike Tarn as pleasure. 

“Uncomfortable?” He questions quietly. 

They’re both aroused, and it’s hard to tell what gave him that idea, exactly. Still, Tarn wants to be absolutely sure. So far he’s been loving this… act much more than he thought he would, but having a partner that doesn’t enjoy it at least as much defeats the whole purpose. Doesn’t matter whose idea that was to start with. Tarn rather prefers to be… fussy about consent than allow himself to ever underestimate its importance. 

You can’t be good to someone if you don’t care how they feel.

Skids looks him square in the eyes and sighs: 

“You ever think all that praise is misplaced?” It’s Tarn’s turn to try and chime in - to no avail. Skids raises a brow at him, and Tarn has to nod to show that he’s ready to listen to the end: “Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice. Loving the effort. Obviously. I just… even for a game, feels like a bit of a stretch, eh? Considering we both know who I am and what I’m into. Don’t you feel like you’ve picked the wrong lover for that _treating like glass_ nonsense?”

‘You have, technically, agreed to that exact description’, Tarn thinks. He doesn’t say that. Instead, he puts his answer in a simple:

“No.”

Speculations on who’s worthy of such treatment and who’s not could last forever, and they never come to a particular conclusion, either. Thinking of whether Skids _deserves_ what Tarn thinks of him would only make both of them uncomfortable. Cataloguing past crimes and mistakes is nothing but a mood-killer. 

Tarn would hate for his consciousness to kick in now, when he’s so hot and bothered and about to have the time of his life. 

“I can stop if you’d like.” He promises in all seriousness. “Otherwise, I don’t see why I should. It pleases me to give you praise, and you seem to enjoy receiving it. That’s as far as I want to think it through.”

Skids frowns a little; Tarn can almost see the gears shifting in his head as he makes the decision. By the time he starts leaning back again and the tension bleeds off as quickly as it came about, Tarn knows he’s been convincing. 

“Yeah? Tell me more, then.”

Tarn can’t help a tiny bittersweet smile; Skids has been always a quick thinker. Adapting to the situation is what he did best. 

There could not be an invitation more clear.

“Gladly. Now, where did we leave off...”

Getting back into the rhythm takes mere moments. Sex really is not unlike dancing - paying close attention to your partner gets your far, and there’s a certain rhyme to it. 

Tarn kneels back on the bed; his hands find their way back to Skids’ skin, fingertips tracing lines down his sides and hips. Tarn lets his mind, his _mouth_ run. Everything that comes to his imagination gets said out loud, and dear Heavens, it feels _exquisite_. Like nothing compares. 

His voice that once almost brought him fame as an opera singer drops an octave down to the husky, deep tone that makes Skids shudder with what Tarn knows - at least this, he can know for sure - is desire. Tarn almost purrs endless praise while his hands roam: 

“You’re so _fine_ , it’s no wonder you could have anyone you ever wanted. You have to be an utter fool or a blind to say no to someone that impressive. Do you even know what you do to others, walking around looking like _that_? Watching you spar with other cadets back in the day… All I could do was to stare a little less obviously, and even that much was an utter challenge. None of that changed. I saw you at the meeting with Prowl the other day. The diplomatic corps uniform looks _sinfully_ good on you. Although if I may say it, no clothing would ever do you proper justice. I’d much rather keep you in my berth, _naked_.”

Skids’ dangerous line of work really shows on him. He’s covered in scars and marks from past wounds, some stitched, some clearly left unattended; Tarn traces each reverently, and his mind cannot help but ponder where each of those came from. A bullet, a knife, a shard of a broken bone piercing fair skin. 

Those thoughts should lead him back to thinking of what Skids does for a living, what sort of a person he _is_ , and they would - later. Right now, Tarn craves nothing more than to soothe every bit of past hurt with caress. 

He presses a kiss to a pronounced patch of scar tissue on Skids’ chest and lingers, feeling the faint heartbeat. 

Skids laughs, strained, and arches into the touch: 

“Those seem to draw your attention. Not exactly twenty and pristine anymore, am I?”

“Just as handsome, if not more.” Tarn takes his hand, enjoying the feeling of calloused fingertips sliding across his skin, and straightens a little to press yet another kiss to the wrist, the back of the palm, the faintly quivering fingers. “They look good on you, too, the scars. Anything would.” 

He lets go of Skids’ hand in favour of exploring more of his body. Getting to a few thin white scars in the middle of his stomach - stabbed with a knife, it seems, and not once, - Tarn strokes down, following the pattern. Skids momentarily tenses, but before Tarn can apologise for causing distress and busy his hands with something else, he hisses: 

“S...sensitive.” 

Tarn catches himself smiling as he promises:

“I’ll take note.”

Rather than taking note, he takes advantage. There is plenty of _sensitive_ places to uncover and catalogue, and Tarn is committed to finding and exploiting each. It leaves him in awe at how responsive Skids’ body is, and it leaves Skids in a beautifully dishevelled state. 

Tarn could do _just that_ for hours. He was never much of a tease, but Skids makes him see the allure. The ultimate pleasure of playing the lover’s body like the finest violin, of discovering every way to drive them mad with anticipation. 

It takes him what feels like an _eternity_ to put his hands where Skids really wants them. 

“Sometime this century would be nice…” Skids throws his head back with a sharp moan when Tarn gives his cock a few strokes.

“I’m taking my time,” Tarn states innocently. 

“I’d much rather you take _me_ ,” Skids retorts, but there’s no real heat to it. 

The… supplies wait for them on the nightstand. Tarn certainly didn’t think of them; Skids came prepared, which makes sense. He’s had sex in mind when asking for this arrangement. Well, Tarn supposes that’s awfully convenient.

He ignores the foil squares for now, going for the plain transparent tube. The cap pops open; the tips of his fingers feel chilly and slick. Tarn can feel himself flush. 

This isn’t just… fooling around. They’re really doing this, aren’t they? They are, and he’s feeling more confident and self-assured than ever and enjoying it immensely. All of it reminds him of the time when he used to sing for the crowd; the power one’s artful skill has over the audience, the rush of bringing pleasure, of having someone to your complete mercies but never getting forceful, never intending to hurt… fascinating. 

“Don’t bother, I took care of it beforehand.” Skids grabs his hand. “I’m good. Let’s just skip to the fun part.”

Tarn’s palm gently presses his shoulder down. 

“This _is_ the fun part.” They roll over; Skids is on all fours above Tarn, and it gives him all access he wants to. “My treat. You wanted me to have my way with you, didn’t you?” 

He also gets to watch Skids’ face distort in pleasure, observe what makes his arms shake and his balance slip. Just like getting the front row seat on the private recital. Sweet God, Tarn loves every second of it. 

Tarn opens Skids up with his fingers _oh so slowly_ , and maybe he didn’t need to, wouldn’t have hurt him if they skipped straight to the main event, but boy is it worth their time. Tarn is, after all, a musician. Things they can do with their fingers, people say, and for once, rumours hold true. Unlike his lover, Tarn is not a superlearner, but he does learn quick. 

When he curls his fingers just _so_ , Skids ducks his head and cries out. If God would come down on Earth right that moment to grant Tarn a death wish, Tarn would ask to hear it again.

Instead, he takes matters in his own hands. 

His free hand strokes through Skids’ damp hair. Self-indulgence is what this is about, and Tarn cannot keep the touch away from his face, tracing every feature again and again like a blind man trying to memorise a painted masterpiece. Every brushstroke under his fingertips… He strokes across Skids’ wet lips, and the next second Skids bites him. 

Not enough to draw blood, yet enough to hurt. It sends excited shivers down his spine. 

“You _wicked_ little thing,” Tarn breathes out. “Would you like me to?..”

Skids bites him again, just for the good measure, when Tarn crooks the fingers of his other hand again to brush the same spot. 

“Thought you’d--nngh!--never ask. How do you want me?”

Still on his back, Tarn unfastens his own belt and unclips the button on his pants, just enough to push down his underwear, then pats his knee invitingly:

“ _Something_ tells me you’d like to lead.”

He takes his fingers out and blindly reaches for the condom; Tarn is, surprisingly, quite certain that both of them are clean - it just feels like a (yet another) right thing to do. Skids’ patience barely lasts long enough for Tarn to stop fiddling with protection before he takes over the matters. There is a shock of intense, breathtaking pleasure when he lowers himself of Tarn’s cock in one fluid motion, but Tarn barely pays it any mind, far too busy watching Skids. His gaze glosses over, mesmerized.  
  
Skids groans, his own eyes half-lidded in pleasure.  
  
“M-m. Always had been my favourite part.”  
  
For a few seconds, they stay still; Tarn strokes up and down Skids’ thighs, waiting for him to get comfortable. When he feels the muscles tense under his hands, he makes his hold a little tighter, somewhat more pronounced. As if trying to hold him in place. That earns him a chuckle and an experimental short movement that has them both gasping.   
  
“I swear, if you’re going to tell me to _go slow_ …”  
  
Tarn nods with a smile that is maybe a bit too open, to joyous for the situation. He can’t find it in himself to worry about it.  
  
“What’s the point of having me on top if you’re gonna tell me what to do?” Skids complaints half-heartedly; he’s panting again, words come out in short exhales; his whole body rocks slightly, inadvertently - he doesn’t seem to notice. Tarn thinks it’s _sexy_. “You know, you were right. I’m so fucking tempted to reciprocate, you have no idea. I could make _you_ scream in seconds, and look what we are doing instead!”  
  
Tarn believes Skids very much could. And that’s precisely why he doesn’t want to give him that opportunity. Tarn knows himself: he is, after all, a hedonist, helpless when confronted by vices that are too _delicious_ to resist. He doesn’t want this to be mindless. To truly enjoy this, he needs to keep a clear head.  
  
That, and he suspects he’ll _love_ watching Skids struggle to keep to the slow, sensual rhythm. Funny thing is, they aren’t that different in that aspect. Neither of them can pace themselves when taking pleasure.  
  
“Humour me one more time,” Tarn says. He reaches out to trace the same scar that got him the loveliest reaction before, just to feel Skids tense around him.  
  
It seems that his birthday might’ve come early this year because his wish gets granted.  
  
It takes a few steady, drawn-out rises and falls to get Skids to moan again. They do indeed fit very nicely together. Tarn cannot help an ever so slightly smug remark: 

“See? It’s not so bad.”  
  
“No,” Skids bites his lower lip, waiting out a particularly high crest of pleasure, and then continues: “Still, would really enjoy… making you scream. In that stupidly nice opera singer voice of yours.”  
  
Blinking in surprise, Tarn corrects:  
  
“I never actually became an opera singer.”  
  
“I don’t _care_ ,” Skids hisses. There’s an urgency to his words that wasn’t there before; Tarn doesn’t know what to make of it - so he just listens. “Pretend that you did. I wish you did. A fucking… top tier singer in some stupid top tier opera. Pricey suits, good music, _stupid_ nice civilian life all around. I wish you’d never got involved with Megatron, never got into this mess, because you’re a decent person and I never actually _wanted_ to--” He gasps for breath, and whatever he wanted to say is lost.  
  
Tarn is overtaken by the overwhelming feeling of pleasure mixed with sweet, sweet remorse for something he can’t even name, and that crazy Molotov cocktail brings him closer to the edge. Skids is babbling, but it’s unintelligible; Tarn cannot make out the words anymore. His moves grow frantic, his eyes screwed shut so tight Tarn thinks he saw tears.  
  
Something deep within his chest pushes him to mutter:  
  
“It’s okay.”  
  
He manages to catch Skids’ wrist just in time to stop him from clasping a hand across his mouth; Skids comes with a shout that was surely heard by everyone on their floor, and the next second, Tarn himself sees white.  
  
It’s glorious. It one of those things that are wrong but feel so _right_.

* * *

When Tarn comes back around, Skids is stretched on the sheets beside him. He’s still breathing too quickly but is gradually coming down from the high. The aftershocks still make the tips of Tarn’s own fingers tingle when he moves to sit up. Skids eyes him but doesn’t move. He seems worn out, which, Tarn imagines, is fair enough.  
  
“Shower?” Tarn offers helpfully. Skids shakes his head. “A cigarette?”  
  
Skids cracks a smile:  
  
“Cliché.”  
  
Tarn takes it as a no. To be perfectly honest, he is at loss at what to do now. It’s not that he never had an after-sex moment, it’s that he’s never done it within a one night stand arrangement with a lover he is, technically, not supposed to care about. Is he meant to give space, back away to avoid seeming clingy? Or, perhaps, the opposite - be a gentleman and care for his lover til they part ways? Tarn vaguely recalls something about making breakfast, but this advice is clearly meant for the morning routine. They’re not there yet.  
  
Skids picks the direction of their further conversation for him.  
  
“Well, it was fun while it lasted.” He stretches a little, then fishes his jacket from the floor where it laid, thrown carelessly, and starts digging around the pockets. “A shame it was a one-time thing, but you know. Gotta know when to quit.”

A pack of tissues appears. Skids takes one for himself and gives the rest to Tarn, who accepts automatically. There’s an air of nonchalance to the way Skids goes about what seems like a routine of cleaning himself. After a small hesitation, Tarn does the same.  
  
While at it, he clears his throat, not looking at anything in particular, and carefully tries:  
  
“Perhaps we could…”  
  
A sceptical look he gets tells him everything he should know. Still, Skids feels the need to stress his point by saying it out loud:  
  
“Not really.”  
  
That’s it. Fun while it lasted, right? That’s where it’s supposed to _end_.  
  
Tarn knew it would end eventually, of course. It was, after all, just a fantasy carefully laid out like a screenplay. He just didn’t expect them to go back to being _nobodies_ to each other so… abruptly. So certainly.  
  
Ending this lovely night on an awkward note feels like blasphemy to something holy, so Tarn does the only thing he thinks he’s allowed to. Tries to smoothen the transition back to reality.  
  
“At least let me hold you, would you?”  
  
A gesture he gets back very clearly reads along the lines of _be my guest_. Skids shifts closer, his bare skin to the fabric of Tarn’s clothes. The room is quite chilly - Tarn starts to notice as the heat of desire cools, and Skids clearly feels it too, with the way shivers slightly. Tarn drags up a blanket from where it’s thrown in a heap on the floor and covers Skids with it, and then holds him closer - Skids’ head on his shoulder, Tarn’s arm thrown around him - and sighs, vaguely complacent. This is the best he can get, and he had promised himself he’d be happy with it.  
  
Before his eyes drift closed, Skids says to him:  
  
“Trust me, even if I wanted to, you wouldn’t want to mess with me. You don’t wanna end up like Megan, do you? You’re too good for me.”  
  
As much as it pains him to admit, Tarn cannot help but think he’s right.

* * *

Getaway wakes up to the smell of smoke. He’s always been a light, anxious sleeper. It's late - or perhaps the better word is early: diffused morning light seeps through the window blinds, but there are no sounds of traffic from the street yet, no proper morning fuss from anywhere. 

Getaway squints groggily, trying to figure out what disturbed him. 

Skids sits on the other side of the bed, hunched, lighting a cigarette. It's odd, Getaway thinks. He doesn't really smoke these days, not the normal stuff, not anymore. 

He also isn't supposed to be back yet. 

“Hey, partner,” Skids notices him and gives him a small smile before taking a draw. “What happened to waiting for me?” 

Getaway rubs his eyes and struggles to sit up. He's tired. It's still too _early_. 

“I didn't… I thought you'd only come in the actual mornin’.” He wouldn't have gone to sleep otherwise. Getaway does stay up waiting for Skids most of the times, he likes being awake when Skids comes back home. “You put so much effort into it. Thought you were at least gonna stay the night.”

That's what Skids himself told him before he was off to his affair. Which made sense. He really did put effort into setting this up perfectly. 

“Didn't feel like it.”

They stay in silence for a little while. Skids is smoking. Getaway is trying to not go back to sleep and finds it easier with each passing moment. 

He worries. That's what he does. Something doesn't go to plan, and he worries about it.

 _Why_ is Skids back so early? 

Getaway shifts a little closer, wishing Skids would just come to bed with him. It's an open invitation, and, to his slight relief, Skids takes it. 

He finishes his cigarette in silence, puts it out and slips under the covers beside Getaway. He's mostly undressed, and his hair is still wet. Straight out of the shower. Instead of smelling like sex and cologne he smells of Prowl’s favourite shower gel. 

“Did you at least enjoy yourself?” Getaway wraps his arms around him, pulls him closer. Something doesn't seem right, but he can't pinpoint _why_. 

Skids takes a little too long to answer. 

“It was… weird.”

“Good weird or bad weird?” Getaway shifts again to look Skids in the eyes. 

Tarn doesn't strike him as someone who could be into things that would be too much even for Skids. You never know with this sort of people, though. _Dreamy_ , over the top. Who knows what could really be on their minds.   
  
Worry swells within his chest. 

“Skids?”

Skids lets Getaway feel around, slip his hands across his skin, his ribs, his thighs, searching for damage. That's their usual routine. Nothing out of place about it. 

The only weird - and unusual means concerning - thing is, of all things, _lack_ of said damage. No bruising, no scratches. Nothing at all. 

A gentle lover, then.

“Are you okay?” Getaway asks, quietly. 

Skids kisses him. It's neither too deep or too passionate, they're both tired, but Getaway melts into it all the same.

“Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn't I be?”

Getaway wants to tell him he doesn't know why, and that's exactly what's bothering him, but instead, there's another kiss, and then some more. 

“Missed you so,” Skids murmurs, and it's something Getaway loves to hear, especially on the nights like this, so he believes it. “Today was good weird. Sex was good. Just got me thinking things, I guess. Didn't sign up for that bit.” 

Getaway doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't say anything. They lay together, in a warm embrace, limbs tangled, and he’s almost drifted back to sleep when Skids asks: 

“Do you miss it, when we were young?”

Thankfully, that question is easy.

“No.” There wasn't much good back in those times. Not for Getaway, at least. Neither does he care much for nostalgia. He adds, unprompted but fervently honest: “I miss _you_ when you're gone.”

Whatever Skids is thinking, it's clearly not all, if any, really about time and age. He looks like he's having another one of his trademark existential crises. Getaway wonders if it has anything to do with Tarn being a _gentle lover_. 

That's easy to imagine, isn't it? Much easier than a secret list of unspeakable twisted desires and tastes. 

Still, whatever Getaway said, Skids seems to be satisfied with it. He nozzles Getaway’s shoulder with a sigh. 

“Did I ever tell you I love you?”

Plenty, and every single time still frizzles something in Getaway’s brain. 

Before Getaway can recover and return the favour, Skids is already fast asleep.


End file.
